I finally got to try something I’ve always dreamed of: proper QRP saltwater ground-planing! This week, we’ve been in Beaufort, North Carolina—a charming coastal town that I can’t recommend enough. As I mentioned in a post last week, I brought along my Elecraft KX2 and KH1 for the trip. On Tuesday, we hopped on a … Continue reading Saltwater Activation: Always Wanted to Try This… →

I’m grateful for logging higher than average elevation gains during my run where I also got to wear short sleeves. I’m grateful for overstuffing on tasty Indian takeout that was made extra spicy especially for me. I’m grateful for how much of a relief it has been seeing Harper’s new home alone regimen working – much less stress on both of us. I’m grateful for receiving a lovely painting of Independence Pass, a place that holds special personal significance, from a NYC AA friend who has helped me a lot over the years. I’m grateful for a meeting where we covered a unique reading from “As Bill Sees It” speaking to the significance of AA’s circle + triangle – a concept I hadn’t dwelt on much, but am glad I did last night. I’m grateful that despite moving from NYC to Denver I’ve found the beautiful ethos of AA to be quite consistent, which feels like such a miracle given how autonomous each group is. I’m grateful for how much of a better mood I am in when I also experience solid sleep. I’m grateful for how many gifts I’ve been showered with in this life – a warm home, a nurturing partnership, my health, my mind back, people who love me, “free” membership to a Program that teaches me how to be a better human every day, an adorable dog, a functioning car, funds to pay my bills, easy access to nature, routines that keep me serene, ancestors who broke their backs ensuring I get the freedoms I have today, and so much more. I feel truly and utterly blessed.

Last week I was hanging out with a fellow who recently moved here from Chicago. As two big city kids (me from NYC) we were commenting on the relatively smaller scale place we both had landed. I’ll be honest I have been slightly bearish on Denver for the past week for a variety of reasons. A major one, sort of orthogonal to any locale I suppose, revolves around building community. I know that comes with time and based off of my San Francisco experience it can take nearly two years. However I miss other key elements of big-city living like the diversity, the energy, the culture, the overall cosmopolitan feel, especially during the Holidays which is my favorite time of year in New York.

I’m not proud to admit, but my conversation with this Chicago fellow too often veered into overly critical territory. After we parted ways I felt uneasy about my demeanor so I became inspired to put into practice a crucial component of my emotional sobriety: Acceptance. I know I’ve written about acceptance a few times already, but embracing it does serve as an important gateway for letting me inhabit a calm, content mental space.

To allow my mind to even be open to such thinking though, I first need to take a step back and be reminded of my Higher Power. When I let my HP in it puts whatever I’m going through into perspective. That perspective permits me to analyze matters more holistically and more realistically. As a result any extremes in my thinking eventually subside. The final piece involves Gratitude. Particularly for cases where I’m processing negativity, gratitude helps reframe my thinking towards the myriad of things going well in life that I can frequently overlook. To summarize, the sequence of actions for me to healthily internalize acceptance involves the following:

So how did I apply the above when it comes to Denver? First I took a long walk to the east side of Cheesman Park where I could see the majestically snow-capped Rockies. Staring out at those imposing natural wonders gave me pause. In that quiet, pensive state my Higher Power arrived. The sheer enormity of my surroundings, the realization of how tiny I am in comparison and how fleeting time is served to humble me enough to get me out of self-pity and petty griping.

Soon other thoughts began cascading into my mind. I acknowledged I came to Denver because I wanted to come. I had a choice and I made it in a thoughtful, sober manner. I wanted to challenge myself in new, positive ways. I wanted to experience the lifestyle in a part of the country that was quite foreign to me. I wanted to be closer to some epic nature. I wanted to walk down streets where I had no history. I wanted space. I wanted to build a home with my partner that is ours – together. I wanted to move not because I was escaping from something, but because I was looking to get outside my comfort zone. I wanted to adopt fresh routines.

Has all this been happening since moving here in February? Yes, it most definitely has. Knowing this I can do more than simply accept Denver, I can thrive here since I have so much to be grateful for these days. I am slowly building a cool, new sober network of people. I’ve visited more breathtaking National Parks in nine months than I have in over the past decade. I am in a wonderfully cozy, comfortable home in a pretty dynamic part of the city. I’m surrounded by a bevy of AA meetings. Thanks to smart saving, I usually have the financial means to do what I want. I live right by my favorite park that proves to be a challenging running route and provides breathtaking views. I have a garage in a neighborhood where parking is notoriously difficult. I have some delicious restaurants, quality coffee shops, and two well-packed grocery stores within walking distance. I have fairly easy access to the mountains given my proximity to the highway that gets us there. Honestly, I can keep going but it’s obvious there is a tremendous amount for me to be thankful for in the life I’ve built in my new surroundings.

What I’m arriving at ultimately is that I am glad Denver is my home. I am also glad AA is such a vital stopgap for me when it comes to conflating negative ideas or wallowing too much in pessimism. The Program has granted me the training to look at my situation in ways that ensure my defects don’t overwhelm me. It certainly doesn’t mean I have become some kind of pollyanna. Honestly I’d find that quite inauthentic to who I am at my core. However it does let me reflect on the good and bad, with Acceptance being the foundation for whatever analysis of my current circumstance. Always building on top of that foundation ensures I remain clear-eyed as I continue trudging along the path of recovery.

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If you don’t mind, indulge me in something that’s slightly off-topic. I’ve always loved maps—especially paper maps. Even in an age of GPS and sat nav, I still keep a North Carolina Gazetteer in my car. I love the detail, the elevation lines, and the fact that a Gazetteer doesn’t need a charge. So, while … Continue reading Similar ETA: Rediscovering Navigation Skills in the Age of GPS →

I am so grateful to be sober today. I’m grateful for the support of my family, Timmy and my friends. I’m grateful for Christmas lights, only 5 more working days, for AA and doing service. I’m grateful for my sponsor, for my pup, for coffee and writing and rainy days that end up being pretty cozy.

Goooood morning my friends! As always, I hope everyone had a nice weekend for those who celebrate Christmas…that you’re gearing up for a holly jolly holiday ahead.

I received some pretty shitty and unclear news on Friday at 5:45 pm roughly 10 days before Christmas and have been feeling a lot of things these past few days.

Friday night I cried, Saturday I was full of motivation, Sunday I was angry, today I feel a bit defeated.

But I think in a way God is doing for me what I can’t do for myself. God is reminding me that I have so many people in my corner. God is reminding me that just because someone says x about you, that doesn’t mean it’s true. I honestly think HP is reminding me how to turn it over.

I don’t always think it’s fair to lean on HP exclusively when you’re in pain. It’s easy for me to be like ‘oh yes well HP is always there but I got this for now’ when things are relatively okay and then to fully turn into HP when things are not okay. But I think in this moment it is pretty clear that the signs have been there all along. Or at least in the last 6 months. In my body, in the back of my mind and all of that has always been HP.

So, a good friend of mine told me it’s all about how you recover now. And so here to all of you guys I will say that I am pissed off, that I am sad and that I am scared. That I feel utterly defeated. That I also feel for the first time in a really long time that I will not let someone else say I am incapable when I in fact am. I will take accountability when appropriate, but I will not eat shit for someone else anymore. I have a plan, and I have faced scarier things. And for the first time in a really long time I genuinely do believe that everything will be okay.

Outwardly to the rest of the world, I’m doing just fine. The boat is not rocking, my head is held high, and I will proceed as regularly scheduled until the above said plan gets worked out and then I will carry on with dignity and grace.

And again, for the first time in a really long time I genuinely feel that I do not have to do any of this alone. So perhaps the silver lining of this one thing that causes so many other feelings, is that I feel reconnected again. To myself, to my higher power. I don’t feel alone and that’s all I’ve wanted for a really long time.

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Xx

Jane

I’m grateful for a day of adventure and intrigue. I’m grateful for feeling free and happy. I’m grateful for clearing away what was and making room for what is. I’m grateful for a morning full of of light and coffee. I’m grateful to be sober today.

LAST WEEK ON TFLMS:

song of the week:

TFLMS Weekend: Where Sobriety Isn’t Just a Consequence…

(last weekend)

As I’ve mentioned countless times, what I love most about the Elecraft KH1 is how it has become my EDC (Everyday Carry) radio. It’s the perfect companion for those impromptu activations I manage to squeeze into my daily routine. Take Thursday, December 5, 2024, for example. Around 3:00 PM, fresh from a physical therapy session … Continue reading Twofer: Impromptu Trail & Parkway Activation with the Elecraft KH1 →

I’m grateful for a sunny Friday morning and for a fairly dramatic sunrise. I’m grateful for standing where I am. I’m grateful for what I’ve built and for the chance to feel proud about it. I’m grateful for things coming together and for letting them. I’m grateful for the people who do have my back. I’m grateful to be sober today.

Mystery ?? Button

song of the week:

I knew all week that it was an old-school week. I flirted with a lot of songs, married none. As I climbed into the saddle to choose the sotw, my mind was still kind of blank and then into the void, this song began playing. I know I say this every week, but I really love this song.1 I know where I was when I heard it the first time.

The scene was Moline, Illinois in 1973, I was ten years old and in the cavernous garage behind the house my grandparents lived in. It was set on an alley and several houses in the neighborhood had once shared it. There was room inside, behind the big-stable like doors, for at least 4 cars. Over the years, Most folks had opted out of the communal garage over the years and had constructed small garages or carports that they could call their own.

This was fine with my grandfather, who was semi-retired, but had picked up a side hustle restoring wrecked rental cars and then reselling them. He and his friend Hank made bank on this enterprise and it also resulted in my brother getting to drive a rescued Chrysler Imperial for a bit.2 This particular summer day, we were working on Project X—the secret go-cart project.

We both understood that the power and capabilities of the go-cart had to be carefully masked. This was owing to the fact that we were building a really lethal, lawnmower-engine powered death missile, with a gigantic steering wheel from a wrecked Ford Galaxy 500.3 If my grandmother, or worse, my mom, saw this thing, that’s the end of Project X. When my grandmother was out getting her hair set on Friday mornings, we’d roll out the go-cart, I’d climb into the plywood death missile, grasp the oversized steering wheel and prepare for launch in the alley.4 My grandfather stood by the mouth of the alley to try and prevent me from being run over by a car.

The go-cart had no brakes, only less acceleration. We did a real astronaut-style countdown and he pulled the starting cord, got the engine going and then engaged the gears he had built and it was go-time in the go-cart. When I took my foot off the gas pedal, the go-cart still moved forward, but at a semi-manageable speed. I could actually complete a big looping turn and head back up the alley—the din of a 2.5 horsepower Briggs and Stratton lawn-mowing, beast engine roaring in my ears.

If you read, “My First Alcoholic,” you get the rest of that story. Not our point today. I was at the workbench in the cavernous garage and my grandfather had a portable am-fm radio there—he liked to listen to easy listening or country music while he worked on the cars. There were times when I was left to supervise the garage, while he smoked in the alley or ran a quick errand. I’d immediately change the dial on the radio to an FM station in Davenport that played songs like “She’s Gone.”

It was on such a day that this song began to play, from the very first, very spare chords, I was entranced. This was the start of a real love affair with Hall and Oates. I loved the plaintive, soulfulness, the wretched realization in this line:

One less toothbrush hanging in the stand, yeah

Oh man, that sounded so sad, and letting all that sadness get choked away by the carbon and monoxide sounded even better. I loved the sense of desperation and the looming need to accept the monstrous reality,

She’s gone.

As I listened to this song for the very first time, I realized right away that there was something missing from my life, something that I really, really needed:

I needed an ex-girlfriend.

I realized the logistical problems involved. I was ten and didn’t have a girlfriend or really have any prospects of a girlfriend. I knew that having a girlfriend was a prerequisite to having an ex-girlfriend—and therein lay the rub.5 Ok, so I couldn’t really identify with the storyline, I didn’t have any friends named Charlie, and none of the friends I did have were allowed to pour me a drink, much less help with any quick decisions.6

You know what I loved about this song? I loved the sad feeling; the beaten, lost feeling I got when I listened to it. I know that sounds super odd, but really letting myself feel that song, imagining the living room with the rumpled blanket still on the sofa, where he slept the night before. It was the 1970’s, so he might have been smoking a cigarette to steel himself before heading to the bathroom to make the realization about there being only one toothbrush hanging in the stand and gazing into a mirror that isn’t making him look any younger.

Somehow we were all vibrating on the same frequency, and somehow I had already adopted a worldview where I kind of knew that I was going to be alone and kind of lovelorn. That’s why I liked all of the Burt Bacharach stuff. I know a lot more about neuroscience and epigenetics than I did in the 4th grade, and understand how a young brain can get wired to experience the world that way.

And that’s an incredibly windy and unnecessarily long path to this idea: Lots of things that get lumped in the mental health bucket these days—including addictions—are not entirely conscious adaptations. We might call them brain hacks today. When Dr. Ruth Fox wrote “Alcoholism: Its Scope, Cause and Treatment” way back in 1955, she recognized this:

Alcoholics are just people who learn to use alcohol to manage their lives. Alcohol is the thread that holds together the quilt, helps generate the brain chemicals that some people produce on their own. For me, it stilled the intense social anxiety I felt, the very strong sense that I was different, not like other people. The sense that I didn’t understand other people and foreknowledge that if they knew the real me, they would probably not like me.

I have no idea where all of that came from. I have no idea why a song like “She’s Gone,” would hit such a sympathetic vibration. I’m not sure it was meant to prepare for a semi-tragic life-to-come. No, I just think that I already felt a big pool of sadness, even at that age, and songs like that felt like understanding and empathy to me. When I think back to those days, when I discovered alcohol around 15 or so, well, that might have been the first time I fell in love:

The flood of chemicals that newly-discovered miracle elixir unleashed in my teenage brain are what literally generated that “white light moment.” The moment when I realized that alcohol was like making an incredibly cool, all knowing, all accepting friend. “Someone” who would literally make everything feel better. The “pool of sadness” might not have been sourced in terrible, violent trauma, but a simple shortage of the brain chemicals that provide feelings of happiness and motivation and overall well-being and satisfaction. Alcohol provided a super-convenient solution.

My mind went 800 mph, even in the dark. I was able to instantly see the tragedy that could attend every course of action. I was fearful and did not believe that I possessed the wherewithal to face the world on its terms. I was already unable to sleep most nights. When I finally got enough alcohol in me, enough to move the meter, it was revelatory. I was funny and slightly and unpredictably dangerous; people were drawn to me when I drank. I embraced the role and soon became the person who never faltered, never refused a drink, never waved off a flaming shot dropped in a beer glass.

I didn’t set out to be a bad person or to hurt other people or try to sabotage and ruin my own life. I started drinking because it helped me manage the world around me in a way that nothing else could. It let me leave behind the shackles of the world, but in a way that felt real and still connected. Drinking helped create a mirage of a normal life, like everyone else led. I could be like everyone else, too, I just needed to drink quite a bit so as to get adjusted properly.

At some point, after you’ve been doing this for a while, it is what is normal. The daily trip to the Logan Tavern was not because of the excellent wings (they were terrible and often left over from the day before—I recognized them). It was a fueling stop, a necessary re-attunement that would allow me to continue to exist in this world. Or just restore the chemical stasis that alcohol helped provide my brain.

The Steps do not function as a way to secretly instill religious belief, or to shame alcoholics into not repeating their evil deeds. The Steps were a form of cognitive therapy that helped me see the set of beliefs, the set of imagined needs that drove my need to drink. And it was an actual, real chemical need; when things were bad, the withdrawal symptoms came on very quickly.The first phase of recovery is the dark hard part of learning to live without the thing that you have believed is necessary to live. There are drugs that can help with these symptoms, but ultimately, it is the chance development of hope that makes the difference and sparks recovery instead of relapse.

The first three Steps are meant to inspire that hope, the hope that things could be different and that we could recover, with a little faith to help fan the flame. The hard work of Steps 4 through 9 are about clearing the underbrush from all of the synapses, wiping away the regret, shame, guilt, fear and selfishness that attend addiction, that maybe generate the need for the addiction, at some level. I believe that what one finds when they work the Steps is this:

Themselves.

I finally spied the real version of myself, the one that I had buried way back in 1978 or whatever. As I became more familiar with this person, as I read the words on page 417 for the ka-jillionth time, I began to make peace with this version of myself. It’s not like a “Freaky Friday” plot,7 there’s a lot of water under the bridge and the person I am is a consequence of all of that water flow and it can’t really be undone. That’s not the point.

The point is to discover what was lost and then recover it.

That’s what the Steps helped me do. Maybe not everyone is helped by finally seeing what happened, but for me, it helped illuminate the path back to what I needed to find.

Sometimes, even when things are good and the world is bright and I’m brimming with energy and all-around happy thoughts, it stills feels good to feel sad. Is that weird? It feels a little like going into a room in the house where you’re not really supposed to be; there’s a sort of dangerous, unhinged possibility in sadness, and it often creates exactly the right climate for change.

Now, I get goosebumps listening to “She’s Gone,” because I have seen the empty toothbrush holder and there was that period of time as a young lawyer where I was imposing on my friend Steve’s hospitality and basement mattress. But I can see now that there is no part of myself that is off-limits and when I touch that pool of sadness, I’ve started to feel the love that attended all of those lost moments instead of regret.

I know there are more sad times ahead, more happy times, too. The Steps helped me finally see what was real about myself and helped undo the terrible knot all of the self-lies tied: The lie that I wasn’t enough. What’s ahead is less important than what is now and what is now is pretty groovy. I don’t need the carbon and the monoxide to choke my thoughts away, yeah.

Happy Friday.

It’s a question as old as time itself: “What radio should I take on vacation?” This month, we’re heading out for a short vacation, and while I think I’ve already answered this question for myself, it’s always fun to explore the possibilities a bit further. As you probably know, I’ve accumulated a fair number of … Continue reading The Eternal Question: Which Radio Should I Pack? →

I’m grateful for cozy Christmas home tours because they inspire inventive decor ideas and also make me feel like a part of the Season even more. I’m grateful for my car’s annual service checkup going smoothly. I’m grateful to have the mental capacity and financial means to take care of things like this because in the depths of my alcoholism such seemingly basic adult tasks were uphill battles. I’m grateful for a beautiful early run in the park where, as the sun rose, it made the fresh snow on the ground and tree branches glisten like millions of tiny white crystals. I’m grateful for the winter clothing I have that enables me to be outdoors comfortably. I’m grateful for a new antique shop I popped into where I found some cool, old-school arithmetic and comic books. I’m grateful for a meeting focused on how we manage through the Holidays, especially getting to hear the powerful perspectives from newcomers. I’m grateful loneliness is not unique to me, which is also a good reminder to not dwell in self-pity. I’m grateful for Harper’s “Bambi-hop” while we play catch – seeing it is an adrenaline shot of happiness straight to my heart.

I’ve been on a bit of a buying spree recently. Most of it is for stuff to make our new(ish) Denver home comfortable, cozy, and utilitarian. The Holiday Season is also influencing me with the myriad of deals that entice me to splurge more than usual. While I wouldn’t categorize my behavior as a major problem, the spike in expenditure is nudging me to take a few beats to ask “Why?”.

The initial fleshed-out question that comes to mind is what purpose does buying stuff serve? Some of it is truly necessary to make our home better: boxes to hide the chaotic wires, entryway hooks for our winter coats, lamps to improve dimly lit areas. Some of it is blatant splurging: artwork for already well-covered walls, another armchair in the office, another vintage book to add to my side table collection. Both purchase categories for me fit into the bucket of “self-care”, which was such a foreign concept for a long while. I don’t think it was ever part of my vernacular except when it came to ensuring my supply of vodka was constant. Towards the end of my drinking, when nobody wanted me in their homes, I was simply moving from apartment to apartment lugging a few drab possessions, mostly worn out clothes and for whatever reason a small office filing cabinet. Due to where I was only a few years ago, I think that’s how I justify my increased spending spree. An investment in stuff is an investment in me like never before.

However AA’s emphasis on regular internal reflection has helped me look at my recent actions more honestly, more like an objective third-party observer. To inhabit that role, I have to start by reminding myself that whatever the potential misstep, valid or not, I must be kind to myself, I must veer away from excessive self-chastising, which is a recurring tendency of mine. After I embrace a gentler mindset, I can search for the root causes of my behavior.

Looking at my past, specifically my drinking, I can safely say my shopping endeavors don’t fall into the addiction bucket. I am not harming my bank account to a noticeable extent. I am not harming those around me. I am not making our home unlivable through hoarding. Yet I do feel slightly on edge because I see my mind making logic leaps like, “If you just purchase that cute little footstool, it’ll make our home all the more complete and therefore you slightly more content”. Without vodka in my system, I recognize the dangers of this thinking and it immediately reminds me of a common AA saying: recovery is an inside job. It’s a catchy turn of phrase that encourages me to look within. When my actions showcase I might be using external people/places/things to derive peace that’s when a mental red flag is raised.

But hold on a second. I can find another justification for my purchases beyond the aforementioned “self-care” rationale. I’ve actually found a new passion: interior design. Not to be braggadocious, but I’ve garnered an aesthetic sensibility that certain people find pleasing based on unsolicited feedback. That said, I have to question when does a passion become an addiction? Am I justifying these purchases by telling myself, “Oh, you’re building your skillset by ordering that footstool”. To a degree I am nurturing a passion, but it can segue into tricky territory. I don’t want to get to the place where I even come close to pushing my boundaries. I recognize I am currently acting on impulses, on those quick dopamine rushes, when emptying my checkout cart.

So after all this rumination and diagnosing what is the solution? I mean ultimately I’ll take me being a lightweight shopaholic over being an expert alcoholic any day of the week. It’s certainly less toxic. As stated earlier, gaining true satisfaction, true healing, is always an inside job. I have to tap frequently into my spiritual connection with my Higher Power to feel whole. I have to practice PAUSE (Postpone Action Until Serenity Enters) before hitting the ‘Complete Purchase’ button. I have to step away from perusing online stores and engage in other, more meaningful activities – attending a meeting, going for a run, focusing on service/volunteer work, utilizing my interior design eye to help somebody else build their home, diversifying my interests/hobbies (painting and knitting rank high at the moment). For now though awareness of the “shopping issue”, reflection on the “shopping issue”, and incremental course corrections are what seem necessary. Should I start spending to the detriment of my credit, feel like I’m becoming a storage facility, or creating a less comfortable home environment then the real intervention may need to happen.

Frankly the fact that I can do the above analysis is a miracle. During my alcoholism I operated purely on instinct. Whatever felt right that instant, whatever would get me the quick resolution, I’d do it and maybe deal with the consequences down the road. There is much more deliberation now. It’s a testament to absorbing what I’ve learnt in AA and translating it into thoughtful action. That action is shifting my focus on developing a strong spiritual backbone to attain true, lasting peace. Because of this change I know, at least for today, I’ll shy away from purchasing that cute little footstool.

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Many thanks to David (K2WNW) and Pete Polanyk, who share this brilliant documentary from the BBC World Service: Morse code: Ready to transmit The Documentary Podcast At the world Morse Code championships in Tunisia, competitors must battle to be the fastest and most accurate at sending and receiving Morse code. https://open.live.bbc.co.uk/mediaselector/6/redir/version/2.0/mediaset/audio-nondrm-download/proto/https/vpid/p0k8y5rz.mp3